


Deficit

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Serious Injuries, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is never letting Bones go on another away mission ever again, even if he promises to keep his blood <i>inside</i> his body this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deficit

If not for the seeping head wound, and the fact that McCoy's eyes are dark and glassy and wild, Jim might mistakenly classify their current behaviour as perfectly normal. He and the good doctor are stumbling together towards parts unknown, arms linked over each other’s shoulders, McCoy spewing grumpy invective into Jim's ear.   
  
"—Didn't enlist to get stranded on a fuckin'  _jungle planet_ , Jim, I saw a spider earlier the size of your fuckin'  _head_ , I'm never going on an away mission ever again if I’m gonna risk getting eaten by intergalactic pythons or saber-tooth tigers—"  
  
Jim pauses to pull McCoy's arm tighter around his neck, eliciting a faint groan from the other man.   
  
See, if they  _were_  back at Starfleet Academy, and if it was two-thirty in the goddamned morning, after a night spent bar crawling (most likely on Jim's request, though without doubt accompanied by the constant soundtrack of McCoy's reluctant complaints, and eventually ending with his totally  _thorough_  participation), then there would be nothing amiss about propping each other up, putting one foot in front of the other, and listening to McCoy raving away drunkenly as they make their way home.   
  
Except McCoy is not drunk, and he wouldn't normally be bleeding out over Jim's command uniform.   
  
"We're almost there, Bones," Jim says cheerfully. He has no idea if they're almost there. He has no idea where ' _there_ ' is, if he's perfectly honest with himself, but Jim Kirk is nothing if not blindly optimistic about the fact that if he tries hard enough, he can get himself out of trouble before trouble ever has a chance to realise it’s even found him.   
  
"Lies," accuses McCoy, “lies and conjecture,” and then he takes a bad step and sends them both sprawling into the thick, cakey mud that seems to cover every square inch of this goddamn stinking planet.   
  
"Bones," says Jim worriedly, when he's spat out a mouthful of turf and oriented himself again. He turns McCoy onto his back, leaning over to peer into his hazy, distant eyes. Eyes which blink at him irritably, and then slide pointedly shut. "Still with me?"  
  
"Where the fuck else would I go, Jim?" replies McCoy sullenly. His mouth is pinched; Jim knows he’s either annoyed, or in pain, or definitely both.  
  
Jim favours him with his most obnoxious grin, because he's clinging tenaciously to the hope that as long as McCoy still has the energy to complain, and bitch, and insult Jim's intelligence with just a strategically placed eye-roll, then he can't possibly be seriously injured. Even if he's trembling insistently in the pressing heat and humidity and remains stubbornly covered in blood.  
  
"Cold, Bones?" asks Jim lightly, pressing the back of his hand to McCoy's forehead, since he's already conveniently laid out on the ground. McCoy's skin is cold and clammy, and beaded with sweat.   
  
"Where'd you pull that from, Jim-boy, the Mother Goose school of medicine?" McCoy slurs, disorientation and injury drawing out his accent. In any other circumstance, Jim would smirk and ask him to say something irascibly Southern, but right now, Jim is beginning to notice just how much of McCoy's blood has soaked into their clothing.  
  
"Well, the tricorder's in your medkit, which is at the bottom of a gully, along with the contents of your stomach," points out Jim, peeling back McCoy's eyelids and squinting at his pupils as if they hold the secrets of life, the universe, and whatever else McCoy might be hiding just in order to be contrary. "I think you're, um, concussed."  
  
"Stunning diagnosis, Captain," snaps McCoy, flailing weakly at Jim to remove his hands. "Look, Jim, you'd go a lot faster if you just go on your own. I've got my communicator, if you head out, make contact with the  _Enterprise_ , then you can beam me up once they've found you, or somethin’. I'm slowin' you down, and I’m not in good shape."  
  
"Bones, shut up," commands Jim, very carefully prying up the hem of McCoy's tunic. The fabric makes a wet, sucking noise as it pulls away from the raw flesh and makeshift bandage Jim had helped Bones tie over himself. "This..." he falters, wide-eyed and helpless and not very captainly at all. "Shit. This really doesn't look good, Bones."  
  
"Flesh wounds rarely do, Jim," growls McCoy tightly, and Jim remembers just how bad a patient he can be when put in the position of needing medical help. "There's nothing you c'n do without fresh bandages or disinfectant or even a nice bottle of whiskey right now. Just don't touch it."  
  
"Shouldn't I wrap it tighter? It's all soaked through," says Jim, ignoring the roiling in his stomach. This is McCoy—this is  _Bones_ , lying here, with a hole in his side, and a crack on the head. This is Bones, and Jim finds himself at a complete loss. Bones is the one who's always there to patch everyone up—Jim included, Jim  _especially—_ and when it's Bones who needs help, who's going to give it? It’s up to Jim, and he clenches his teeth and pushes the part of himself that's panicking and running around in circles far, far away.   
  
"With what, banana leaves? You're not wrapping me up in alien flora, Jim," McCoy says firmly, squirming on the ground, his chest rising and falling with every quick, shallow breath that he takes. His skin has taken on a disturbingly yellow hue. "Now are you going to help me up, or not? Goddamn it, Jim, there are  _ants_."  
  
Jim stifles a laugh, because really, only McCoy could say something like that while he's cheerfully watering the soil with his own blood. He bends and props McCoy up first with a hand behind his back, then levers them both to their feet. McCoy is leaning more heavily on Jim, now, his head lolling forward as he shudders and wavers uncertainly.   
  
"Sorry, doctor," Jim says, forcing a smile back onto his face. They begin the agonizing process of walking, once more.   
  
"I'm serious," moans McCoy. "No more away missions. Even if Spock says it's  _logical_  I come along. Y'don't see  _him_  falling down ravines and getting attacked with primitive weapons because the locals ain't so keen on modern medicinal practices. All I did was pull out the fuckin' tricorder, I was just checkin' his  _temperature—_ "  
  
"I know, Bones," Jim murmurs soothingly. With one hand tight around McCoy, blood squishing alarmingly through his fingers, he uses the other to retrieve his communicator. All he gets is dead air. The communications dead-zone has to end  _somewhere_ , Jim is convinced of this, but it's been miles now, and being separated from the rest of the team without a way to contact them is driving Jim out of his mind. He hopes, desperately, that the crew is searching much more effectively for the two of them than Jim and McCoy are currently managing to do. "No more away missions, I'll write you a note. Exempted, from here on out."  
  
"Good," grunts McCoy resolutely, sagging enough against him that Jim is forced to his knees to keep from dropping McCoy on the ground.   
  
"Whoa, c'mon Bones, up you go," Jim urges, readjusting his grip around McCoy’s waist. McCoy’s head rolls on his shoulders sickeningly, like a broken doll, and he doesn't reply.   
  
"Bones!" shouts Jim, panic creeping up on him out of the corner of his mind where he'd sent it sulking hours ago. He stretches McCoy back out on the ground, ants be damned. McCoy’s eyes are shut, and he's still breathing, but his pulse is sluggish, and his chest rises and falls so shallowly that even Jim knows he's failing fast. "Bones, no! Wake up, you grumpy, insufferable bastard, that is a fucking order!"  
  
McCoy moans softly, under his breath, and Jim, at a complete loss, slaps him across the face.  
  
" _Ow_ , Jim, fuck," mutters McCoy, turning his body away from Jim and curling up protectively. "Your bedside manner is  _terrible_."  
  
"Oh my God, Bones!" cries Jim, relief flooding him like a wave at high tide. "Don't do that."  
  
"I'll try to replace the gallons of blood I've lost right away, sir," McCoy mumbles, with a vague gesture that Jim eventually realises is a pathetic attempt at a Starfleet salute. "If you'll just give me a moment to assemble a replicator out of leaves and twigs..."  
  
"Still complaining," sighs Jim, rubbing a trembling hand across his dirt-streaked face. "You're fine, then." He brushes McCoy's damp, sticky hair out of his eyes and checks his communicator again. His heart shoves past the rest of his organs to settle obstinately in his throat when instead of dead air, he gets crackles of static and snatches of voices in response to his distress call.   
  
"Bones! Bones, I think we're almost in range of the  _Enterprise_ ," Jim calls excitedly, getting to his feet and holding the communicator above his head, moving it around in a full circle as though the extra foot of height will make a difference. He's so focused on the communicator, and dancing a little jig, that it takes him a moment to realise McCoy hasn't said anything.   
  
"Fuck," hisses Jim, his stomach dropping out again. He falls to his knees, fingers immediately finding McCoy's pulse. It's faint, and Jim can barely tell he's even breathing. He doesn't think a slap to the face will do it this time. Pushing McCoy's legs apart, Jim kneels between them, facing away from the other man, and, grabbing McCoy's arm, he pulls it over his own shoulder and heaves him onto his back, using his free arm to brace McCoy under his knees.   
  
"God, Bones, you weigh a fucking ton," groans Jim, awkwardly rising to his feet, McCoy sprawled over his back like a sleepy child. His arm hangs over Jim's chest, a dead weight, and McCoy’s chin is digging into Jim's other shoulder. He can feel McCoy breathing, arranged this way, a faint huff of air against the shell of Jim's ear, and this is enough to comfort him. McCoy is still alive. He's going to be  _fine_. Jim is going to save him, save them both. He'll bring McCoy back to the ship, and later on, McCoy will be forced to tell everyone that James T. Kirk, insufferable trouble-magnet that he is, actually managed to save Dr. Leonard McCoy's fucking life.   
  
"Hear that, Bones?" Jim says inanely, beginning to traipse determinedly on through the thick underbrush. "You're going to be fine, because I'm the captain now, and if you die, I will never  _ever_  let you live it down. Oh, what's that? McCoy, yeah, he was a  _pussy_ , he died on a backwater jungle planet after he tripped and fell down. You mean that moron was  _CMO_? On the  _Enterprise_? I didn't think Captain Kirk let losers like that on his ship. Is that what you want, Bones? And then, at your funeral, I'll tell everyone about that time you got wasted on Kentucky bourbon and threw up in my shoes -"  
  


oOo

  
  
In the end, Jim doesn't have to do anything at all.   
  
As soon as they step out of the dead-zone,  _Enterprise_  locks onto them, and beams them directly to sickbay.   
  
They find Jim sprawled on the floor, McCoy unconscious and collapsed over Jim's back, both of them stained in blood and mud and God only knows what else. As soon as Jim realises what's happened, and where they are—safe, they're  _safe_ , Bones is totally going to be  _fine—_ he lets himself pass out rather cheerfully.   
  


oOo

  
  
Unknown units of time later, Jim wakes up with McCoy's name on his lips.   
  
He's tucked into a biobed, wearing one of those humiliating, sterile hospital gowns he hates so much, and the lights are dimmed in such a way that Jim knows it must be gamma shift. He blinks, yawns so hard he cracks his jaw, and turns onto his side.   
  
McCoy is on the bed next to his, wrapped in bandages, and evidently sleeping peacefully. His dark hair is streaked messily across the pillows, clean of mud, and the bruising suffered at the hands of a particularly stubborn rock formation stands out on his skin under the bleached lights. There's a small plaster stuck just under his hairline, above his right eye, and Jim wonders vaguely how a wound that emitted  _so much_  fucking blood can be staunched by such a small bit of gauze and sticky tape.   
  
Jim slips out of bed and pulls a chair over to perch next to McCoy’s bedside, wanting to see him more closely.   
  
Underneath his standard-regulation patient’s gown, McCoy’s torso is swathed in yet more bandages, and they've clearly had at him with the dermal regenerator, because the bandages, thankfully, are white and pristine and not even stained with so much as a speck of blood. Jim doesn't ever want to see that much of McCoy’s blood again.   
  
"Bones," Jim hisses softly, just under his breath. If McCoy is deeply asleep, the murmur of his name won't reach him, but Jim knows, from plenty of experience, that if McCoy is sleeping normally, and un-medicated, then Jim doesn't need to raise his voice in order to irritate him awake. McCoy has a doctor’s instincts and the ability to roll out of bed fully clothed and mostly awake at the slightest hint of emergency.   
  
A small, almost unnoticeable crease appears between McCoy's eyebrows, and his lip twitches.   
  
Jim rises up on the soles of his feet in the chair, crouched like some sort of enormous, gangly bird. "Bones, Bones, Bonesbones _bones_ ," chants Jim, leaning over McCoy, carefully reaching out a finger to prod him between the eyes, where that intriguing furrow had appeared just a moment ago.   
  
"Dammit, Jim," growls McCoy hoarsely, his voice thick with sleep, taking the edge off any potential true annoyance. "Your bedside manner really is fuckin' terrible. I was asleep, you know, and I was dreaming of a world in which James Kirk had been born without vocal chords."  
  
"Sounds tragic," chirps Jim, and now that McCoy is awake, and happily sniping at him, Jim lets the relief fill him up until he feels he might vomit sunshine and rainbows.   
  
"It was heaven," sighs McCoy, his body uncurling as he comes more fully awake. He opens his eyes, and they're back to how they should be, green-flecked hazel, not dark and confused with pain and carefully-concealed fear. "I feel unfairly denied."  
  
"Mm, I weep for you," grins Jim. He could spend the rest of his days bickering with McCoy. He remembers how still he'd been, lying pale and broken on the ground, and clamps down on that thought before it gets away from him. He reaches out, takes McCoy’s hand in his, and squeezes. He's not sure who he's reassuring, McCoy, or himself.   
  
McCoy squeezes his hand in return, and Jim can see the smile hovering around his lips.   
  
"You saved my life," drawls McCoy, with mock reluctance, and this is the moment Jim has been waiting for.   
  
"Hey, forget it, what kind of captain would I be, leaving my CMO—"  
  
" _But_ , since I end up having to save your childish ass on a regular basis," Bones continues forcefully, ignoring Jim's magnanimous declaration, "I'd say we're still at a deficit of  _you_  owing  _me_."  
  
"Bones," protests Jim, pitifully, his eyes widening until they’re at what Jim has discovered is their most persuasive.   
  
McCoy laughs aloud, a jerking movement that has him clutching at his ribs.   
  
"Serves you right," grumbles Jim, leaning back in his chair.  
  
"Aw, there you go again, lookin' all pathetic," McCoy chuckles, eyebrows crawling up to his hairline. "It’s like kickin’ a puppy, you utterly ridiculous moron. But, thanks, Jim. Really, I mean it."  
  
The smile returns to Jim's face as quickly as it left. He puts his other hand over McCoy's and says, more seriously, "Don't ever do that to me again, Bones. I can't take you anywhere!"  
  
"Hypocrite!" snorts McCoy, wheezing with laughter.   
  
His eyes are drifting shut, but he's still got a good grip on Jim's hand. Without a word between them, in the dim light of sickbay, McCoy shuffles over on the thin cot, leaving enough room for Jim to lie down beside him. McCoy closes his eyes and Jim listens to him breathe, steadily, as he falls asleep again.


End file.
